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End Game

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Where the Story LiesEverybody wants to knowwhere the story lies. Does itlie in childhood? Does it liein old age? Does it lie in anangry outburst or a stingingrebuke? Does it lie in a momentof compassion or in the recognitionof calloused selfishness? Bruisedlove or…

Hey, Pistolero

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I'm complex. You're complex. We're all complex.Who gives a shit? Man's fallen and he can't get up.I consulted Jacques the Atheist for advice: he toldme to beat it. "But I lack the proper stigma!" I cried.Once a month, I volunteer at the dressage parlor.On Tuesdays, I…

How the Monarchs Thrive

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Daryll said he wished he'd followed his tuba into the Raccoon River, plunged down below the ice, trapped, freezing, never again to surface... He reckoned freezing was the best way to go, gunshot the second.

A Sonata For My Mother

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Because her mother died when she was five.Because a child should not lose her mother at the age of five.Because the nuns dressed her as baby Jesus.Because she wasn't educated past the age of 13.Because she had to stop going to school to work for her aunt's who beat her and…

How Filthy the Human Mouth

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When he saw me, he jumped faster and faster, wild like something rabid.

Framed Papers

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He fished a tissue from a hidden pocket and dabbed his forehead, then called the cops.

The Night Before School Starts

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A familiar ritual by now...

Fire Alarm

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You snore and the house is safe again.

There is a Sadness

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now I cannot shake. I am only one person. Thereis a sadness. I cannot understand. Fathom. Control. Manipulate. Detonate.I used to kiss her tenderly. Do you think this sadness is wise to us? Don't point that gun at me! There is a sadness. There is another war. Iam…

Objects in a Field

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Cacophony of an engine-braking eighteen-wheeler/ scatters the crows to fences, trees and wires/ in a startling chant of caw, caw, caw.

There There There

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i hear the boom boom boom in the room room room


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A.The poem of rational progression is dulling.Make the leap. Go beyond juxtaposition to collision.We like poetry that does double duty, triple duty, quadruple duty. We like poetry that mixes the grit, poetry that has the texture of complexity.Reason asserts an…

Ain't the End of Me

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But even if the truth Never sets me free I'll know this ain't the end of me

With Eyes Closed

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I believe I will become a bear, snuggle up in a deep cave, coil myself inside my fur, close my eyes on hurting images, turn a deaf ear to the uproar of the world. Bolt my door to the deceiving voices outside. Sleep. Forget. Wait, as we wait for spring, for the violet and…

are you a life force?

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are you afraid sometimes, in the night, in the wind as it beats down your maelstrom thoughts?

Hard Times

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None of this is real, he says, and the path slopes down to a house that is possibly haunted. One always looks in such windows, one cannot not look at the predictable detritus of another's failure, a queer satisfaction, a fairy's dust. But no, not real, none of it. And…

The patient

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He switched off the light. His wife was breathing softly. At her bedside he told her of her friends the roses, of the pretty carnation brooch he had pinned on her silk scarf, of her coquettish hat which fitted her so well. Small, simple and bright memories the heavy night…

Summer's smack

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clouds clot the horizon all day

William Carlos Williams wasn´t married to my wife

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This is just to say, she says, I´ve eaten the fucking plums.

Tough Guy

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He remembers his father’s concrete slab hands. Balled into fists they resembled kettlebells.

On Tuesday

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When they talk, they put their hands like a cup around their mouth

Lights Out in the Ardennes

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Once with the lights flickering....

Forever KAP

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She mustn't...

Boats for Rent (Thinking About You)

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We're killing off the elephants. We're killing off the tigers. We're killing off monarch butterflies. We're wrecking the coral reefs. Big sad gorillas don't feel at home in their own homes. And all instead of learning to live in some…

End Game

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The will to make/ remains

Perils of Poetry in a Pandemic

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...the bulk of poets are amateurs.

No Prada, No Burberry, No Gaston Lauvert

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Although it was unlikely that she would witness mobsters racing up or down Wabash Avenue with guns ablast, she paced behind the hotel's ground-floor glass eyeing traffic for fifteen or twenty minutes . . .

Amish in the Theater of Lust

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Through the Walmart parking lot they came...

Attacking Panic

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I'm panicking trying to think of the next line in this poem

The Rat, His Treadwheel

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The rat had been informed, assured, cajoled in order to gain his assent—duly lied to, in other words, by the researchers with not one tear of remorse, with no smudge or smear of conscience . . .